The Hellhound
by the0voice0from0above
Summary: Destiel: Dean is possessed by a hellhound and is prone to violent episodes. After beating Castiel half to death, Dean makes the decision to kill himself. Alternate Universe – I've reinvented the creatures in the Supernatural world; they don't follow the same rules.


A/n: I wouldn't read this if you can't handle cringe-worthy romance.

**Sweetness level: a sack of fucking sugar. **

* * *

_All because of you, I believe in angels. Not the kind with wings, No, not the kind with halos - Rise Against _

* * *

The swelling around his left eye had sufficiently reduced that he could open it fully. Rainbow coloured skin lay puffy and tender in its wake. Castiel touched his face gingerly, examining his split lip. It was healing well, just like the rest of him.

He exhaled a cloud of condensation onto the mirror and dragged a finger horizontally through the receding moisture. His own blue eyes, one surrounded with a large bruise, peeked back at him through the misted glass. A fog balaclava.

Beside the tap his phone vibrated and clattered into the sink. It was a message from Anna, his sister: _If you want to carry on chasing after him that's fine. It's your business. But if he hurts you again, I'm going to the police._

It was an idle threat; she had called the police many times in the past all to no avail because Castiel would never press charges. Even so, he felt obliged to ask her not to, to reassure her, as he had done before, that it was his decision to put himself at risk, and he accepted the consequences.

Perhaps it would be easier, he mused, if she understood what it was like to be in love.

Someone entered the men's room, and Castiel pushed his phone into his pocket, slipping out before the door could swing closed.

In the far corner of the low lit bar, Dean was nursing the same beer he had been nursing all night. His shoulders were hunched and tense, face etched with a frown, creases deep like a carving.

Castiel sat down across from him keeping his usual respectful distance. He'd made the mistake only once of encroaching on Dean's personal space.

As ritual dictated, he waited for Dean to speak first. Castiel remained silent for the apology that was sure to come, the possible tears and the guaranteed attempt to push him away.

Castiel drank his beer with reassurances on the tip of his tongue, poised to spill out at the right moment.

"I spoke to the doc today," said Dean in a surprisingly even tone. His voice was firm, almost calm. Fixed, to match his taut face.

Something unpleasant squirmed in Castiel's belly. A marked change had happened within Dean, and Castiel was certain it wasn't for the better.

"After I told him I beat you half to death, he suggested I up my meds."

A torrent of denials were about to gush from Castiel's lips. "You didn't beat—"

Dean cut him off with a black look. Flat, lifeless eyes sat in an equally lifeless face. "I cracked your ribs and broke your arm in three places."

And that wasn't even a full summary of his injuries. Still, Castiel's fingers grazed the rough cast supporting his right limb and he said, "I'm fine."

"Does '_fine_' constitute as '_alive_' to you? Because it sure as hell doesn't to me. '_Fine' _means doing well, relaxed, fucking care free. Not a walking advertisement for domestic violence."

"It isn't domestic violence; we're not in a relationship," he said, feeling obliged to point that out.

"No. Thank god," muttered Dean around the end of his beer bottle, and Castiel's heart physically ached. Ironically, Dean's words tended to hurt more than his fists.

He watched Dean take a long swig of alcohol before he spoke, "I've had worse."

Dean pushed out a laugh. A horrible smile transformed his mouth as he looked away. "Yeah, you've had worse alright."

There was something about Dean's lack of emotion that had Castiel worried. Finality wired Dean's whole presence like a man on his knees who had accepted his fate and was simply waiting for the bullet to hit. Dean was defeated, and Castiel was worried. He craved to touch him. He almost did, and it was in his hesitance that he realised Dean's knuckles were cracked, barely healed, and infected.

"You should have cleaned your hands."

"What's the point?"

Castiel tried to examine the wounds, but Dean jerked away from his probing fingers, eyes flashing. "Don't," he growled.

"But you're hurt."

"And you're _not_?" said Dean incredulously.

Castiel took a measured breath. "Just because I'm injured doesn't mean you need to be too. Why don't you clean them? We can go back to my place and do it there. Those cuts look infected."

"Yeah, that's right," sneered Dean, "you've got to look after the fists that'll probably be beating you tomorrow."

It took everything in Castiel's power not to break. He wanted to cry, shout, force Dean to understand that it wasn't his fault. It truly wasn't. Dean was possessed by violence. Quite literally. He was possessed by the unfettered spirit of a hellhound. For the past two years Dean had been prone to violent streaks that had decimated his family and friends. Castiel and Sam were the only people remaining in Dean's life and despite this, at every turn, Dean tried to push them away. They would never leave though, never, because they loved him; although Castiel's feelings of love for Dean were somewhat different to those Sam held.

It had taken a whole week for Castiel to fall in love with Dean. He had met him in college, on the laborious steps to the science building.

A stack of books was balancing perilously in his hands. He had to use his teeth to hold the tower in place. Just as he reached the top, puffing and panting, a fellow student threw the door open into Castiel, and his entire academic bounty toppled to the floor.

Red in the face with anger and exertion, Castiel crouched and didn't bother to look up when his assailant hastily apologised.

"Oh, man, I'm sorry. I didn't see you."

_That's because you weren't looking,_ Castiel wanted to snap. He didn't though. Instead he ignored the stranger and continued collecting up his now-damaged books. Just as he aimed for _Campbell Biology: 9__th__ Edition,_ it was taken out of his reach. He finally lifted his head, squinting into the sun.

"Biology, huh?" said the student who was standing, silhouetted against the bright, clear blue sky.

"Yes." Castiel straightened. "Can I have it back please?" he asked, only vaguely noticing how incredibly good-looking the man was. Blonde-brown hair, soft green eyes, strong jaw – he was model worthy.

"Woah," said the student, moving in close, too close. "Your eyes are _crazy _blue."

Castiel balked.

"Sorry." The man said with a devilish grin. He stepped back. "Personal space."

The following week the student, Dean, turned up in Castiel's Biology class and promptly started to talk to him as though they had known each other for years. After ten minutes or so of utter bewilderment, Castiel was sucked into Dean's charm like water to a dry sponge. He had loved him ever since. It was only down to Castiel's embarrassment and insecurity that he hadn't confessed how he felt. That, and the fact that Dean was impossibly out of his league and had never given any hint that Castiel's admiration was mutual.

"What has the doctor prescribed?" said Castiel, returning to the present.

"Who knows? Let's hope I have an allergic reaction and it kills me."

Castiel refrained from wincing with difficulty. It hurt to hear Dean talk that way. "Please don't say things like that."

"Why not? With me gone you'll be free to do whatever the hell you want. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it," he said with a sick smile.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"What? Being free of me isn't a tempting? Not even a little bit?"

Castiel looked directly into Dean's hollow eyes. It was hard to believe that they had once held mischief more often than not. "You're not a burden. You're my friend. Why're you talking like this?"

"Whatever," said Dean, standing up. "I'm done."

Castiel's tummy lurched. By 'done' Dean meant for the night; he was going home. Only his tone, his expression, everything about it suggested something more and Castiel's instinctive reaction was to catch his wrist and prevent him from leaving which was what he did.

At the contact, Dean's face contorted. "Let go."

"Wait," said Castiel. He searched for something to say. He had to stay with Dean. He had to. "Wait. Let me. . .let me clean your hands."

"Why? What's the point? They're just going to break open again."

"You need to heal." They had long since discovered that the only way to remove the hellhound from Dean's body was to make it an inhospitable environment. More precisely, he had to have just a moment, a single moment, of complete serenity. The pain, the torment, the depression – whatever Dean felt on a daily basis had to be put on hold. They had tried everything to achieve it - drugs, alcohol, sex, candle light and instrumental music – but nothing worked.

"No."

"Please, Dean," begged Castiel. "Let me—"

"_No._ No amount of cleaning is going to get rid of the blood, Cas! They're stained, they'll always be stained. It doesn't matter what you do, what you say. It doesn't matter if you stick around for another beating. It doesn't matter if the doc dopes me up on enough meds to knock out a horse. One wrong move and that's it, I'm beating you so hard you're choking on your own blood, and I can't watch that again." The light overhead caught the shine on Dean's eyes. "I can't do it, Cas. I won't do it." His voice shook, and Castiel had to swallow the urge to hug him. "I'm going home."

Castiel stood up. "I'll go with you. We can have a drink—"

"No. Just. . . just go home, Cas." Dean's brows creased. His eyes roamed over Castiel's face with a strange intensity as if he didn't quite recognise Castiel and was trying to place him from a distant memory. Suddenly he stepped closer until they were only an exhale apart, and for a heart-stopping moment Castiel thought they were going to share a kiss. They didn't. Dean gently prised Castiel's hand from his wrist. "I'll see you around. Okay?"

"Wait," Castiel breathed, arm outstretched, but Dean was already gone.

* * *

Back home he was restless.

Dean had obviously reached the end of his tether. It wasn't the first time Castiel had been put in hospital because of Dean, in fact the majority of the attacks had landed Castiel unconscious, but it _was _the first time Dean hadn't apologised for it. What did that mean?

Castiel's anxiety ratcheted another few degrees until he started to sweat profusely. His shirt was glued to his back. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he stared at his phone and debated calling Sam or possibly the police. Dean wasn't going to do anything stupid was he? Castiel never would have thought Dean was capable of suicide, but the way he had been talking made Castiel question that.

After another attempt of calling Dean's cell and home phone only to receive no answer, Castiel began to pace. He had a bad feeling.

His gut told him Dean was in trouble, and that was all the persuasion he needed to have him picking up is keys and dashing out of the door.

He only lived a couple of blocks away from Dean which was handy because he had forgotten to grab his trench coat, and the night air was bitter.

Dense clouds swirled in front of his face as he paused at the foot of Dean's driveway, looking up at the dark house. There was a single light in the top window which Castiel knew to be Dean's bedroom.

He jogged up the steps of the porch and raised his hand to knock. An itch in the back of his mind had him pausing. He looked down at the silver door handle, glinting under the security light above his head. With shaking fingers he turned it, and the door creaked open to display the much too quiet interior.

The catch, which would have automatically locked Dean's front door, was up. Either it was an accident or Dean had left it open on purpose.

Bile rose in Castiel's throat. "Dean?" he called.

No answer.

An eerie silence reigned throughout the house. Castiel edged inside. The floorboards creaked under his feet. Heart hammering, he headed up the stairs at a measured pace.

Dean would be fine. There was no reason to worry. He wasn't going to kill himself; he wasn't that selfish. Dean would never leave Castiel like that. He wouldn't. Castiel needed him, and Dean knew it. No. He was fine. He was probably sleeping. The fact that all the lights were off bar his bedroom was nothing to worry about. Just because Dean usually kept the entryway light on didn't mean—

Castiel turned the corner and his eyes landed on Dean sitting at the end of his bed. His heart jumped into his throat. As he stood in the doorway to the master bedroom it took a second to register the gun in Dean's mouth. His finger on the trigger twitched.

"NO!" yelled Castiel.

Tossed out at sea and left to fend for himself in the vast ocean of Dean's pain, he clung to the hope that Dean wouldn't pull the trigger, wasn't_ going _to pull the trigger, because he didn't look nearly as determined as he had been at the bar. Tears were streaming slowly down his flushed cheeks, gun still pointing towards the back of his skull. His green eyes, barely open from the grief contorting his face, were on Castiel. His shoulders shook.

"Dean," breathed Castiel, edging closer, hand reaching out to him. "Dean. Don't do this. Please."

There were words he should have said. Somewhere in his mind he had the answer to vanquishing Dean's distress, but his head was a mess; he could barely recall his own name let alone provide Dean with a reason to stay alive. The trouble was, Dean had no interest in living any longer with a hellhound haunting his every step, and since they couldn't exorcise the beast, Castiel had no idea how to reassure him. How was he supposed to tell him it was going to get better when it wasn't?

"Dean, listen to me. I-I know life hasn't been easy, and I know it feels as though it's getting harder, but you can't do this. You can't. Because I need you."

Dean lowered the gun. His expression broken. At least he was listening.

"If I could take it away, if I could switch places with you, I would do it in a heartbeat –" That's when it occurred to him. There _was _something he could do. The idea had taken root in his mind months ago. The only reason he hadn't acted on it was because Dean's situation had never been as dire as it was now.

The room blurred around him, losing focus. Absently he touched his chest feeling the power twisting and curling only inches away from his fingers. He could do it. . .

"Cas?"

Castiel exhaled. He dropped his arm. "I can help you, Dean. I can expel the hellhound."

The click Dean's throat made when he swallowed was loud in the room. "What?"

"I can help you," said Castiel with a nod. He closed the remaining distance between them and dropped to his knees in front of Dean whose expression was a mixture of wariness and anguish. Castiel shuffled closer between his legs. "Place your hand here," murmured Castiel. Although he asked him to do it, he had to physically lift Dean's left hand (the one that wasn't still gripping the gun) and rest it on Castiel's chest, directly above his heart.

"Cas, what're. . ." Dean's voice faded away. The gentle weight of Dean's palm was incongruously comforting. Those hands had knocked Castiel unconscious and yet all he wanted was to be touched by them.

"There's a reason I knew you were possessed by a hellhound and was able to draw it out of you long enough to confirm that. There's also a reason I know violence isn't in your nature, and it isn't you who is attacking me." He paused. "I'm a nephilim. A child of an angel."

"You're. . .a what?"

"I don't have wings or a halo. I can't fly or play a harp. What I can do. . . is give you my heart," he said slowly. Enclosing his hand over Dean's, he pushed the knot of energy out of his chest, cold swept over his skin as he did so. A bright ball of light glowed between them, illuminating their hands and faces.

Even broken as he was, Dean was still beautiful, streaks of tears and those familiar moss green eyes lit up with the vibrancy of the white light.

"Cas, what is this?"

"It's my heart. My core. It isn't like an ordinary human heart. It's a ball of energy. If every human body was running on steam mine would be running on electricity. It's pure angelic energy, and I can give it to you," said Castiel. "If you'll take it."

"And that'll get rid of Cujo?"

Castiel's answering laugh was shaky at best. "Yes. The angelic energy will be powerful enough to expel the hellhound."

"What happens to you?"

"I suppose I'll die," he said, amazed by how at ease he was about that. The realisation of what he was about to do took hold faster than he would have imagined. He was okay with it. Natural instincts of self preservation were extinguished in the face of Dean's pain.

"You'll _die?_ Then what was—" He shook his head. "I'm not _killing_ you just to save myself."

"Dean—"

"No, Cas. What the fuck? Did you seriously think I would consider that?"

"It isn't your decision to make." Castiel lowered his gaze to the light still shining between them- an incandescent soul in the palms of their hands. "To be quite honest. . . my heart hasn't belonged to me for a long time. It's always been yours. I'm just carrying it for you."

When the silence lingered, he looked up, and his breath caught in his throat at the expression on Dean's face.

Castiel had only a second to gasp before Dean leaned in and kissed him. Like a bolt of electricity it shocked his core. A feeling of absolute pleasure flooded his body, raising goosebumps on his arms and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. All Castiel could focus on was the swell of Dean's lips melting into his; it was even better than he could have ever imagined. His heart was throbbing; if it hadn't already retreated back into his chest it would have blinded them.

Just as he pressed closer, Dean pulled back abruptly. He clutched his stomach and dropped off the bed onto his hands and knees, coughing. A black, tar-like substance splattered onto the carpet followed by a plume of gritty black smoke. It continued to stream out of Dean's mouth, rising up into the air and swirling in on its self like an indoor thunderstorm. When the last wisp left him, Dean collapsed and the peculiar smoke disappeared.

Panicked, Castiel scrambled over to the prone form of his best friend. "Dean?!" He shook his shoulder. "Dean, say something! _Dean_!"

The man himself rolled over onto his back with a groan. "If a kiss from you can exorcise a dog from hell, is a fuck going to send me to heaven?"

Castiel gaped. They caught each other's eyes and, after a second, started to laugh, perhaps a little hysterically, but they hadn't laughed together in such a long time that it was going to take them a few tries to remember how to do it.

Castiel was looking forward to trying.

THE END


End file.
